


Dear God

by lexstiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, M/M, Pre-Canon, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 09:12:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4174293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lexstiel/pseuds/lexstiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by one of my favorite Avenged Sevenfold songs, this is the story of how two brothers fell in love despite a mountain of odds stacked against them, narrated through extensive letters written by Sam Winchester to a God he's not even sure he believes in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Dear God_ ,

When I saw the expression on Dean’s face as I walked out of the door and slammed it shut, man, I almost stayed. I really did. I almost threw my bag back down on the bed he and I had to share in that stupid little motel room and said to hell with it. But I know he’s better off without me, anyway. He’s always getting on Dad’s bad side because of me – when they argue, it’s only because Dean is sticking up for me. Because Dean, I’ve always been his weakness. According to Dad, we’ve always been way too close for brothers: the way we clutch each other’s hands in the back of the Impala when we get close to the site of a hunt, the way we cling to each other in those disgusting motel beds the night before he and Dad leave, the way we linger in each other’s arms as long as we can before Dad yanks Dean away to go kill whatever monster they’re after this time. And maybe Dad’s right: maybe we aren’t like normal brothers. But that was always okay with me, until it became the fuel behind the fire that had Dad and me screaming at each other almost every night while Dean tried unsuccessfully to stop us. I felt bad afterward every time. I did. Every time I swore to myself that no matter what Dad said or did the next day, I would let it go for Dean’s sake. And every time, I failed Dean _again_.

I know Dad thinks I left for selfish reasons, and I’d be lying if I said looking out for myself wasn’t at least somewhere in my mind as I stormed out. But that wasn’t my main goal. For months after I got accepted into Stanford, I mulled over my options, trying to find something that would suit my desires without hurting Dean in the process, but I found nothing, no real compromise. So tonight as I went for a run to clear my mind, I made my final choice: I _wasn’t_ going to leave. As much as I’ve always wanted to get out and build a normal life for myself, Dean is much more important to me – I will always place his needs above my own, because that’s what he does for me. _Because that’s what love is_.

I was proud of the decision I had made, and even a little relieved to have finally reached a conclusion. As I made my way back to the motel we were staying at, I planned it all out: sitting Dean and Dad down, explaining everything that’s been plaguing me for these past several months about Stanford, and letting them know that I didn’t plan to leave anytime soon. Hell, I was even going to apologize to Dad and ask him if we could start over, try to get along. I imagined Dean’s beautiful smile – that rare genuine one that only I can seem to coax out of him – when he learned that I wasn’t going anywhere. I imagined the look of relief, with maybe even a bit of regret mixed in, on Dad’s face. I was content.

I opened the door to our room with a small smile on my face, my hands shaking a little bit from nerves as I entered. I was so preoccupied with my mission, so caught up in my own head that it took me a minute to register the scene I walked in on. Dad was white-knuckled, a piece of paper grasped in his fist so hard it crumpled. Dean was pale-faced, standing a couple feet away from Dad, his arm outstretched as though he had been trying to grab the paper. I looked from one to the other, utterly perplexed. I racked my brains, trying to figure out what that paper could possibly be for it to have caused such an extreme reaction from two hunters. I was still lost in my confusion when Dad crossed the room in a couple strides and shoved the paper at me. I took it from him, fumbling a bit and nearly dropping it. I looked at Dean again; he hadn’t moved except to drop his extended arm, which was now hanging limply by his side.

“Open it!” Dad spat in my face. I did what I was told, so shocked I forgot to bristle at his tone.

It was the stupid Stanford acceptance letter. I’m so stupid.

They say You have a plan, God, but I have to ask: why? Why _now_ , of all times, did they have to find that damn letter I sentimentally kept at the bottom of my clothes bag?

I trembled – I actually trembled – when I looked back up and found Dad’s face inches from my own.

“Your brother found that in your bag when he emptied it out to do laundry,” he said quietly. Dean took a step toward me and faltered.

“Sammy, I – I didn’t mean to let him see it,” he choked out. Dad shot him a sharp look and he shut up immediately, chewing on his bottom lip.

“Dad,” I began, “I swear, I was going to tell you about it –”

“ _Why the hell were you hiding this from me, boy_?”

I took an involuntary step backwards as I hastily replied, “I wasn’t hiding it, Dad, I was just thinking it over for a while. I wanted to make a decision before I brought it up to you because I knew you’d be mad at me!” Obviously, I wasn’t wrong, either.

“Well, have you made your _decision_ yet, _son_?” Dad snarled. I heard Dean inhale sharply from where he still stood several feet away.

I couldn’t help it. I was angry now, and that emotion seeped into my tone when I replied, “Yeah, _Dad_ , I actually have. Thanks for actually asking my opinion for once.” I didn’t even try to resist tacking on that sarcasm.

“Don’t you dare get that tone of voice with me, Sam,” Dad thundered dangerously.

That did it.

The shouting match that followed was the worst to date. The rest of our arguments were harmless thunderstorms; this? This was a category five hurricane. We ripped into each other, saying things we knew we’d likely regret later and not giving half a shit about it. This continued for about an hour – I never even got the chance to tell him that I had decided not to leave – before a soft noise from the direction of one of the beds drifted over to us. Dad and I turned in united horror to see Dean _crying_ , actual tears running down his face and little sobs shaking his shoulders. Dad started to say something along the lines of, “Look what you did, Sam,” and I distantly heard myself telling him to shut the fuck up as I darted over to Dean.

 _Dean._ Dean, who never cries. Who always holds _me_ when all of my pent-up emotions spill over and there’s nothing left for me to do but cry. Who always dries my tears with his shirt and pats my shoulder, offering comforting words and touches to remind me that no matter what, I have him to help me through.

I did this.

I finally fucked up so badly that it knocked down his carefully built walls, sent him careening over the edge of the cliff he has always been terrified of facing. _I made Dean cry._

I placed a hand on his cheek, brushing tears away gently with my thumb. “Dean, I – I’m so sorry.” He didn’t answer me, didn’t even look up at me. He just stayed hunched over, weeping quietly and staring at some stain in the carpet. I got on my knees by the edge of the bed, leveling my eyes with his. “Dean,” I pleaded. He finally brought his gaze up to meet mine and I felt my heart shatter when I saw his beautiful green eyes glistening even more brightly than usual, tears welled up and spilling over, tracing little paths down his face. I somehow mustered up the superhuman strength to make my voice work. “Dean,” I repeated in anguish, “I never meant for this to happen, man. I came home to – to,” it was then that I realized I was sobbing, too, making it even harder to force the words out, “I was going to tell you that I – I decided not to go to college. I wanted to stay here, with you.” I gave a dark chuckle and added, “I was even going to talk to Dad about making up.”

I saw hope flash across Dean’s face before it was replaced by horrified understanding. “You _wanted_ to stay. Past tense.” It wasn’t even a question, because I could tell he already knew.

My face felt wet but my throat was as dry as the Sahara as I hoarsely confirmed, “Yeah. I, uh. I realize now that – that staying here probably isn’t the best idea anymore.” _With every day I stay here, I hurt you more, Dean._ His pained expression set off an ache in my chest that I knew could never be numbed. I gathered him into a hug, holding him tightly. It took a supreme force of will to tear myself away from him and stand to face Dad, who had been watching our exchange with a look of utter disgust. He folded his arms and glared at me.

“So,” he said. “You’re leaving.”

I was tired now, so tired. I couldn’t even muster up a retort. “I’m leaving,” I sighed. “It’s – it’s best for all of us.” I picked up my bag, which had been dropped unceremoniously on the floor sometime before I returned, and stuffed the clothes that had fallen out back into it. Slinging the bag over my shoulder, I took one last look at Dean. He was no longer crying; instead, he was staring at the wall with a complete lack of emotion showing on his face. He didn’t fool me. I knew exactly how he felt, because I felt it, too.

Part of my soul, the part that belonged to him, was wrenched away with every step I took toward the door. As I reached it and turned the door handle, I heard the soft clunk of boots on carpet behind me. I turned to see Dad, arms still folded, but no longer bearing the signs of hatred and fury he had sported so clearly just minutes earlier.

“Sam,” he said softly.

“Yeah, Dad?” I managed to croak.

He paused for a moment, looking at Dean before turning back to me. “You walk out that door, son, don’t you ever come back.”

I, too, looked at Dean before I responded.

“Okay.”

I slammed the door behind me.

So here I am now, sitting in an uncomfortable seat in the cheapest charter bus I could find to take me to Palo Alto, typing this stupid letter to a stupid God who probably doesn’t even exist, anyway.

But if You do exist, man, I only ask one thing of you.

Hold Dean when I’m not there for him, when I’m farther away than I ever should be, putting hundreds, thousands, of miles between me and the other half of my soul.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note: If it seems like the subject jumps around a lot in these letters, you're getting the right impression. Sam is writing his thoughts as they come to mind, without revision or a set topic in mind. These letters are just Sam pouring his heart out the only way he knows how as he searches for a way to overcome his immense suffering and pain.

_Dear God_ ,

I’ve been at Stanford for three weeks now. It’s nice. It’s what I always wanted.

Except it’s really not.

Four times during my first week here I packed my things and rode the cheap bike I bought off some shady street seller all the way to the bus station before stopping myself. Seven times in the last two days alone I dialed Dean’s cell number into my phone; twice I hit call and immediately ended it. Once I called from a payphone and stayed on the line long enough to hear Dean’s weary “hello” before panicking, hanging up, and crying for ten minutes while cradling the phone in my hands. I’ve written six letters, staining each one with tears before tossing them in the trash bin by my bed. My roommate thinks I’m nuts.

My roommate’s name is Jack. He seems pretty cool, but I think he’s a little afraid of me. Last week he walked in on me crying and I got pissed and threw a book at him. I apologized afterward, and he accepted it, but he keeps a careful eye on me now and always knocks loudly before entering our room. He’s nothing like Dean, which is both a relief and a disappointment. A relief because a constant reminder of Dean is the last thing I need right now; a disappointment because a constant reminder of Dean is all I want right now.

When I woke up this morning I glanced out the window and thought I saw a 1967 Impala parked outside my dorm. I pulled on pants, didn’t bother with a shirt or shoes, and dashed down three flights of stairs to find an empty spot where I swore Dean was five minutes before. I climbed back up the stairs slowly, not even caring that the people I passed in the stairwell threw me weird looks.

I think I’m losing my mind.

I miss Dean so much. That ache in my heart that appeared the night I left has expanded into a throbbing, stinging wound. I keep expecting to look down at my chest and find that open wound bleeding through my shirts, but my pain is invisible. It’s tearing me apart from the inside. I think of Dean every second of every day. I’m a great student, straight As every term (“That’s my boy!” Dean always exclaimed when I brought home my report cards, clapping a hand on my shoulder and puffing his chest out proudly, and though I protested I always stood a little taller afterward) but when I received the grade for my first college paper, I had barely scraped a passing grade of 62. My first D.

D for Dean. D for dead inside, which is how I feel without him. D for distraught and desensitized and depressed….

I want nothing more than to have Dean back, but I left to save him from me and I’ll be damned if I let him back within a fifty-mile radius of my bad luck and trouble-prone nature. I love him too much for that. He would lay his life on the line for me in a heartbeat, and if I were to stay with him, that day would inevitably come. If anything were to happen to Dean, I honestly don’t know how I could carry on with my life.

I wonder how he’s doing right now. I wonder how he and Dad are getting on without me. Their lives are probably easier, honestly – Dad never held back when it came to telling me that I was a burden for not wanting to go on hunts with them, despite the fact that I did most of the research. But I wonder if Dean is okay now. If he’s happier without me there to weigh him down. Part of me hopes he is, but a selfish part of me wants to think he’s feeling the same way I do right now. He told me once that I’m the only real reason he hasn’t put himself down yet. That scared the shit out of me. But if I didn’t think that Dad could keep him safe from himself I wouldn’t have left, and I have to hold on to the knowledge that as much as I hate Dad, I can have faith in him to watch over Dean. Dad always loved Dean more than me, anyway. I’ve always been the black sheep of the family, the one he never wanted around because I didn’t fit perfectly into his hand-crafted mold of what a man should be like Dean did.

I’ll always hate Dad for what he’s done to Dean, turning him into his soldier, a man who cares nothing for himself and thinks he is unworthy of happiness. Dean honestly believes he doesn’t matter, that he could disappear from the world and nothing would change. But that’s not true at all; if Dean disappeared so would my sanity.

I’ve also been thinking a lot about what Dad always said about Dean and me being too close. I keep seeing his face, the look of absolute disgust he had on his face as I clutched Dean to my chest the night I left. I will never forget the disdainful glances he would shoot at me when he’d walk in on Dean and me snuggled up to each other on a motel bed, watching TV with our legs carelessly tangled and our arms comfortably slung around each other. I never really had an example of what normal siblings are like; I never really paid attention back during my school years because I was always focused solely on Dean and schoolwork (and it’s not like we ever stayed in one place long, anyway). I’ve seen brothers hang out together here at Stanford, though, and their relationships are nothing like my relationship with Dean.

Am I a freak?

I probably am. I should be worried, but I guess it doesn’t matter since I’m never going to see Dean again, anyway.

Wow. That just hit me, man. I’m never going to see him again. Never going to see his smile or his sparkling eyes, never going to feel his warm presence beside me at night while I try desperately to fall asleep without him. It sucks. It sucks a whole lot of ass. But I know that I can’t even visit him, because if I do, I’ll never come back to Stanford and we’ll find ourselves back at square one. I can’t let that happen, not after all the shit I’ve muddled through these past few weeks to ensure that Dean has the best possible chance at happiness. So although I desperately miss him, I have to be strong and stay away. It’s for his own good. I always have his best interest in mind.

I guess I should wrap this up now. I don’t even know why I bother. If You even exist You obviously don’t give a flying fuck about me anyway. But somehow I can’t bring myself to fully believe that there isn’t someone out there listening to me, hearing my prayers and maybe even feeling a little bad for me. I don’t know.

I don’t know anything anymore.


End file.
